


To be

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [97]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27824620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: They actually talk about it, for once.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [97]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Kudos: 32





	To be

"Maxwell," Wilson said, very quietly, in a soft spoken voice, "you know I wouldn't if I didn't want to."

The hands on his face, dull bone talons and clammy warmed palms pressed to his hollow cheeks, dark eyes staring into his own pitch black gaze, close enough that their knees were brushing together, warm breath in the space between them, filling the already stuffy tent, the already shadowed darkness outside that only faintly lit up with low firelight, and Maxwell…

...was silent, his own hands loose in his lap, the close contact, the physical touch, taking all his energy in focus, in staring into those stormy eyes and knowing he must have so little to reflect back in answer, and he found himself without a rebuttal, without words to answer back. 

Only a thick feeling setting in through his chest, made it hard to swallow for a moment, and the discomfort of being so close to another was far outweighed by it being _Wilson_ , always Wilson, and those hands pressed a bit more firmly, dull claw thumbs shifting a bit before slowly starting to rub simple circles against his skin.

"I...I do this because I _want_ to, Max. I wouldn't be here, with you, if I didn't want to be-"

"Do you _really_ want to be here?" 

His own voice wasn't much louder, almost exhaled besides for the firmness hidden underneath, but Wilson had gone dead silent and continued to look at him, watch him, listen and ponder and _think._

 _Use that genius mind of yours,_ Maxwell thought to himself, _don't waste your time._

There was a bitterness inside him, knotting itself into thick lengths all throughout his chest, drawing ever closer and tighter about the thing that might substitute as his heart, and the thorns only got sharper and longer, the roots spreading their infection. 

As if he had much left to be infested; the shadows lay half dormant under his skin by now, They must be, as patient as They were, feeding along with his pulse, and the former Nightmare King felt the inevitable lapping up against him like the waves to a shoreline, a tide threatening to return. It shouldn't be long now, he wanted to believe, and yet…

The silence was broken when Wilson finally let out a sigh, the slightest of strained tone lilting through it as his hands stilled, as his eyes looked away for a brief moment as he spoke.

"...there aren't many other places I'd rather be than here, if that's what you're asking." He looked back up, those scowl lines of his face curling into something more similar to worry, that thick concern that made the pitiful thing in Maxwell's chest twist and curl in on itself. "I...I am here because I want to be."

"You know as well as I that you had no choice in the matter." 

"There's always a choice, Max." Wilson's voice grew distant for a moment, thoughts lost in amongst themselves, but the other man still scooted closer, still held Maxwell's head in his dull clawed hands, still made that effort to hold his gaze, hold him tight. "If I chose differently, I wouldn't be here."

"That...has happened before." His own tone softened, this time the one to not meet eye contact as his gaze drifted away, shoulders falling as thoughts and memories came up in a slick, sickening roll of remembrance, but then Wilson made a soft sound.

It took a moment, to recognize the laugh. It came out as chuckles, a bit sudden and surprising as Wilson had to lean back and actually rub at his eyes, and it didn't die on his lips as he answered back to Maxwell's mildly offended confusion. 

"Yes, yes I have, haven't I?" He shook his head, wild greasy hair waving every which way at the simple movement, but then he scooted himself back into Maxwell's space, hands coming down from his face and drifting to his shoulders for a mere moment. The eye contact was a bit much, gazes locked for a few seconds, but Wilson's eyes were soft, the look not at all strict or forceful in nature. "I've made that choice before, too. That's the funny thing about choices, Maxwell; there's so many of them, and you can always choose differently."

Maxwell broke the eye contact, looked away into the darkness of their shared tent, that bitterness rising thick to his voice and curdling atop his tongue, the slightest of snarls peeking through him as his hands curled in his lap.

"I think you've forgotten just how permanent the consequence of such choices can be."

There was a beat of silence at that, and Maxwell closed his eyes, heavy weight in his chest shifting, spreading, entangling and strangling and eating through him with its dark roots. He needn't have turned the conversation, if it could be called that, into something far more serious than he knew Wilson seemed to wish of it, yet…

"Well…" Wilson spoke quietly, a pause just before his hands gently squeezed Maxwell's bony shoulders, then slid down his arms to rest atop his curled firm hands. "With all my time here, I've come to believe that things can always change. There are choices, and their consequences, and...and I like to think there is always a way through it."

Bone talons carefully curled around his clawed gloved hands, over atop his knuckles, and Maxwell found himself glaring down at the display, that bitterness waking ever so much more now, curdling and twisting and eating itself and him alive.

"There are some things that cannot be forgiven-"

"And they won't be, Max, you know that." Wilson cut him off, still holding his grip atop stubborn gloved hands, but his voice was even and firm and well believed in, a confidence and Knowledge in how he spoke, so soft and quiet. "You and I can't change the past, and there aren't enough choices in the whole world to fix that."

Maxwell's glare dissolved at that, shoulders falling, that curdled bitterness growing cold, a weakness nurtured by the infection he himself had let in, but when his gaze dragged its way up and met with Wilson's there was no harshness to greet him. The other man's voice went soft, watching him, looking to him for whatever it was that Wilson was always trying to find, and Maxwell sucked in a shivery breath of stuffy air, knowing the lack of such that must be so obvious by now, so very obvious.

"That doesn't mean I have no say in the matter now. My choices are mine to make, each and every time, and I can do what I wish with them."

"...and what of mine?" Maxwell spoke just as softly, perhaps quieter, gaze drifting to his hands, to where he slowly uncurled his fingers and allowed those bone talons to entwine with his own covered claws. "Of all the choices I have made in my lifetime, why is now the time where I must abstain?"

Wilson paused at that, clammy warm palms pressing to Maxwell's gloved hands, and there was a certain kind of heat, warmth in the touch, the firm hold together. 

The bitter darkness ran along with his pulse, his heartbeat, and the former Nightmare King couldn't help but shiver at the inner chill, the self eating darkness residing within himself, growing ever larger the more it became fed, and a part of him twisted itself with worry of such a thing. If it became any larger, would it tire of him and eat the next closest to his flesh, his mind? Feed itself, and him, from the energies of others, and that part of him, suffocating under the heavy dark weights that flooded his chest now, wanted so terribly badly to tear himself away, flee with what little vestiges of who he was still left inside him.

...He's felt it before, housed it, fed it, let it grow hearty and fat atop the Throne, and all the Nightmare King had been able to feel was that deep bottomless _wanting_ , starvation but never death, never rest.

Even now, away from it all and the dark hunger in him squashed down, muted and ignored in favor of the much deeper regrets and longings, even now that was still, perhaps, all he starved for.

And he needn't subject another to such a monstrosity.

"...why must I allow your choices to conflict with mine?"

Words had once been his strong suit, his weapon of choice, and yet nowadays they were double bladed, or just plain worthless; language had no barring when nothing that slipped from his lips were believed, trusted, cared for. He has been called many things in his past, but the names here, in this world of his own making, had a different tone to them.

_Snake, Evil, Liar, Demon..._

_Devil._

What a difference now, compared to the sniveling pathetic man he had once been. No one in their right mind would have thought to call William a _devil._

He supposed, however, that Maxwell fit such a name in near all aspects now.

Wilson was very, very quiet, for a while. Thinking, Maxwell knew, though he didn't look up, didn't bother pretending to be curious in whatever answer the man gave him; to his mind, it wouldn't matter, and it never could. Such was inevitably, after all.

Then the other man drew in a breath, a steadying one, and his hands squeezed with his own, bone talons curling firm and unbreakable about his fragile, brittle claws.

"...They don't." When Maxwell raised his gaze at the unpredicted answer, the abrupt firm determination, the care in Wilsons eyes was all too clear to see. "If I can help it, at least. If my choice makes my path intersect with yours, I do everything I can to…"

He seemed lost for words for a moment, eyes darting as his mouth twisted in concentration, before Wilson caught what he was looking for and tightened his grasp with Maxwell's hands, that swell of determination stronger now.

"I do everything I can to make us both happy."

That...wasn't the answer Maxwell was expecting, or looking for.

It caught his own words up in his throat, and then his gaze tore away and he looked elsewhere, breath strained in his chest with each second now, before he just settled with closing his eyes, jaw grit tight and shoulders hunched, a hint of a tremble now in his spine.

 _"Happy?"_ He hissed, low and through clenched tight jagged teeth, "How can I ever be _happy,_ after all that I have done?"

When was the last time he was happy? Could he have ever called himself that, even before now? A vague memory floated up, just barely brushed his consciousness; the briefest contact between close family, the briefest of visits even, two pairs of pale eyes and bright shocking buttercup hair and small hands, laughing as his previous self had amazed the toddlers with simple little magic tricks, but then the memory receded and all he had in its place was the knowledge of a family who had long disowned him and two small children, one long dead and one treading that fine edge, and there was no love in his nieces eyes any longer.

His time upon the Throne had seen to that.

Just that briefest of thought, of memory, and Maxwell turned his glare to the man seated by his side now, holding his clawed, stained and scarred hands now, and his hiss was shivery and shuddered but he forced it out anway, that bitterness within him spreading its thorns, clawing all throughout his chest, insides seething with a pulsing pain that the infection increased ever so much with each passing moment of his all too long life.

 _"How_ can you ever be happy, after all I have done to you?"

A part of him almost had him tug his hands out of that grip, a jagged tooth snarl on his face and a dampness that he wouldn't acknowledge, never, but those bone talons just tightened their grip for a moment and Maxwell would not allow himself to recognize the look on his partners face as he attempted to lean back, the darkness _insisting_ that to flee would be what he wished for, that this was his choice and he should _do it-_

Before, suddenly, Wilson had wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, face pressed to shoulder and those bone taloned palms pressing firm to his bony spine.

"Because I made that choice." Whispered against him, a hint of strain in that soft, determined voice, and Maxwell shivered, trembled as his partner held him close, all too close. "Because I can't change the past, but I can change my future, and it's my choice in deciding if I want you there or not."

The former Nightmare King sat there, held pressed to a man he has harmed for much too long to ever count, or even understand, and his hands were limp and he was…

...just so very weak, wasn't he? 

"Why…?" His voice came up hoarse, whistled with his strained breath, the stress shuddering through him and leaving him a pathetic weight to lean against someone he had no right to lean for support against. "W-why…"

"Because I…" Wilson paused for only a moment, but his grip didn't falter, his hold didn't weaken, not even for a second. "Because I _know_ you, Maxwell. I've known you for a long, long time, longer than anyone else I've ever known in my entire life, and…"

Another pause, a moment where the former Nightmare King trembled and shook and pretended to not recognize the tears running down his face, the bubbling cough of strained half sobs strangled in his chest, the infected darkness corrupting even that, eating it all away, feeding the bottomless, ever hungry thing inside him, no matter how much he so much wished to never do so again.

"I _care_ about you, Maxwell. I care enough about you to want you to be happy. Isn't that enough?"

The sound that escaped Maxwells throat wasn't really any sort of word, more of a half whimper, choked sob of exhaled noise, but if it had been one he knew it would've been a shaky, weak and pitiful little _"No…",_ because what else was he to say? His choices in his life have defined him as someone undeserving, and he most certainly didn't deserve these warm hands about him, this warm body drawing him in close and assuring him with some half assed excuse that he could ever be _happy_ , but…

But, this was Wilson's choice, wasn't it? What a terrible decision, Maxwell knew, deep, deep down, but the hold was still warm, the pure physical contact firm and comforting in a way he wished he didn't glean comfort from, and he just didn't have the heart in him to pull away and rip the bandage off the infected wound. 

As if he had much of a heart left, this infested thing inside him, pulsing with weakness and putrid rot, yet…

Wilson wanted to hold it close anyway. It spilled foul ichor and rotten blood out of itself, infected and decaying, damaging all it ever touched, and yet the other man wanted to cup it within his hands anyway, wanted to bring it close and comfort its pathetic whining, corrupted desires…

All to try to give it _happiness._

Maxwell trembled, swallowed down the withering sounds within his throat with all the strength he had left, and he was just oh so weak and pitiful, wasn't he? Wilson held him, the slightest shifting sway of rocking, this tent of theirs stuffy warm and stinking and yet all he could think to focus upon was the warmth about him, tugging him close and together, _wanting_ to be close and together.

"I'm here, with you, because I want to be." Wilson said, softly, firmly, "I wouldn't if I didn't want to, Max; this is my choice, and I...want it to be your choice too."

Quiet, for a few moments, and Maxwell trembled under the far too much weight of his choices, his sins and self made terrors, the infection eating him alive that may one day kill him in his ever growing need for _something_ he had no name for, and the former Nightmare King-

-nodded his head, turned his face to press into the space between neck and shoulder, warm and stinking of humanity and odor and wilderness, the brush of thick greasy locks of dark hair, and the touch didn't drive away his weakness, nor his sickness, but Maxwell found himself making his choice, too.


End file.
